


Naughty Girl

by inber



Series: Inber's Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Come Marking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Light Dom/sub, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Name-Calling, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pet Names, Punishment, Smut, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23611132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: You haven't been paying attention in Professor Julian's lectures. When he finds this out, he punishes you for your insolence. A smutty little one-shot inspired by a prompt! This does take place in Oxenfurt, but everyone is of legal and consenting age.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/You
Series: Inber's Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840093
Comments: 24
Kudos: 123





	Naughty Girl

“And that, my dear doctorate students, is all the time we have today. Have you any questions?” Professor Julian's words filtered into your consciousness, and you forced yourself back into the moment, eagerly shuffling your papers together and cleaning the nib of your quill. The other students were ahead of you, filing out, thanking the professor on their way.

You were tardy because you'd spent most of the lesson either gazing out the window at the cirrus-swirls on the horizon, or at the professor himself. Sure, it had looked like you were listening – you hoped – but honestly? You were comparing the shade of his blue eyes with that of the sky.

Stuffing the last of your 'notes' into your satchel, you heard the approach of the professor's footsteps, and tried not to bite your lower lip. “Ah,” His voice was musical, even when he spoke, “I'm glad you're still here. I've been meaning to speak with you.”

“You have, professor?” You hoped you sounded casual, but Gods, it was difficult with him standing so close. He was around your age, but he was tall, broad of shoulder, and distressingly handsome. He had his hands clasped at the small of his back, and his expression was stern.

“I have.” He agreed, picking up a piece of paper that remained on your desk. One of his eyebrows lofted in question as he scanned the badly scribbled notes and the poorly drawn treble clef. “ _This_ is what you took from my lesson?” Although his voice was even, it had the slightest edge to it that made you want to squirm in your seat. You resisted.

“Yes...?” You ventured, well aware that the composition was sub-par at best. It certainly didn't follow what he'd been playing whatsoever. “I, uh. My memory is better than my note-taking, professor. I prefer to practice without the rigidity of sheet music.” _Good save,_ you thought.

“Ah!” His eyes flashed, and there was something dangerous there, even though his smile was as the ivory keys of a newly-tuned grand piano awaiting a musician. “How rare that is. Why don't you show me what you remember?” And then he was walking across the room, casually closing the door, and picking up one of the lutes that lay across the room with taut strings like a rabbit-snare trap.

“Oh, I--” You stuttered, “I don't like playing... in front of...” You began to trail off. It was too hot in the room, and his intense blue gaze was focused upon you with such accusation that you did squirm this time. Not like the sky, you thought; they were lakes in the height of summer, bottomless pools of promise and mystery. Your throat felt dry. “Listen, professor--”

“Sir.” He stopped you, and you felt a wash of heat engulf your body. “Address me appropriately when you are being corrected.”

 _Don't tremble,_ you told yourself. But you pressed your thighs tighter together. “S-Sir. I am only taking your class because it is required of my doctorate, not because I am... a worthy musician.”

“Is that so?” He stood beside your desk, holding the lute casually, although he might as well have been holding a battle-axe as far as you were concerned. “You're here out of _obligation_ , not interest. And why, pray tell, are you taking a composition class if you are not to compose?”

“B-because I am writing my thesis on... on the history of instrumental... evolution.” You blurted, tearing your gaze away from his to look at your fingers. The quill had stained them with ink. “I need to at least be familiar with how music is written with various instruments.” There was a silence, and you hurriedly tacked on, “ _Sir._ ”

“So you should know enough by now,” His voice had lowered to a gentle purr, “To play a standard natural minor scale.” You felt him move behind you, and had to grip the desk in front of you so you wouldn't turn around and gawk at him. The warmth of him at your back bled through the fabric of your dress, and your traitorous nipples pebbled in interest at the contact. Gods, you hoped he wouldn't notice. Casually, he brought the instrument over you, waiting for you to accept it. You grasped it as if it were a live snake.

“Tsk,” He clicked his tongue, “Higher.” You felt the brush of his fingers on your arms, the callouses there from years of playing string instruments, and your hammering pulse neglected a few beats.

Holding the lute as instructed, you placed your fingers in position across the fret, and strummed a first chord. You actually felt him wince behind you. Your hands were shaking as you shifted for the second part of the scale, and _Gods,_ you held down the A string too tightly, because the instrument actually sounded like it was choking.

“Enough.” He barked, and you hoped, you actually _prayed_ that the room would suddenly catch on fire so that you'd be forced to vacate. You were blushing furiously enough to begin the inferno, you thought. “You've sat through _three months_ of my classes, and _that_ is what you have to show for it?” Snatching the offending lute away, he moved in a sweep to stand before you. You felt the metallic taste of blood and realised you were biting your lip a bit too hard. “Look at me.”

Slowly, you raised your eyes to meet his. Gods, he was furious; those pale pools had darkened, and he was rolling up his shirt-sleeves to the elbow. The scowl was prominent on his features, defining his cheekbones.

He was so sexy that you thought you might come then and there from his stare. Instead, your cunt throbbed painfully, and your nipples only made themselves more visible beneath the thin fabric of your spring dress. “I'm sorry, Sir.” You whispered.

The rove of his acute gaze was slow as he took you in; your posture, the response of your body, the tremor in your limbs. You saw a shift, almost imperceptible, but present. He spread his hands on the desk and leaned over it, close enough that you could smell the sandalwood and soap that clung to his skin. “How sorry are you?” The husk of his voice was all kinds of fuckery. But it was also a question loaded with intent. You felt the dynamic between you swell and evolve. Ever-so subtly, he glanced at the door, and then back to you.

You could leave, if you wanted to. That was clear.

Instead, you whispered, “ _Very_ sorry, Sir.”

The slow smile that pulled at his lips was hedonistic, and your own mouth fell slack at the sight. “Students that don't pay attention in class get _punished._ ” He hummed.

You whimpered. The sound escaped your lungs without consent. But your head was nodding. He considered you for a long moment, the silence heavy enough to make you want to fill it with something – anything – to ease the tension, but you were saved when he rose to his full height again.

“Get up.” He ordered, and you did as you were told. With a feline-like grace, he stalked back around your desk, and took up your vacated seat in a lordly lounge. “Pull up your skirts and lay across my lap.”

He _wasn't_. He-- you stared at him dumbly until you realised that he was serious. Like you were a misbehaving juvenile, he was going to _spank_ you. The thought made your knees weak and the rush of wetness between your thighs much worse – until you remembered the undergarments you'd selected to wear that day.

White lacy things, short, that tied criss-cross up the back. Not appropriate for much, but you liked that they were your sexy little secret. They gave you confidence. Now, however...

“I don't like waiting.” His voice snapped you out of your frantic reverie, and you suffered another shiver. Gently, you crept to his side, and then lay across the expanse of his lap, your rear covered by your dress, your hands braced on the floor.

“I suppose I must do everything myself, then, shall I?” He rumbled at you, and you squeezed your eyes shut as he fingered the hem of your dress. His hands were soft up the expanse of your legs, your thighs, until you felt the coolness of the air as he exposed both your behind, and your naughty secret. “ _Ohh_.” He chuckled, and you felt his cock twitch at your belly, “I see. Shy and demure until the door is closed. Is that right, my darling girl?”

You were supposed to answer, you knew. “Y-yes.” Your voice was barely audible, and you felt his fingers at the laces of the damnable lingerie. _Why_ did you choose them today, you wondered? Maybe the fates were laughing at you.

“Well,” He said, pulling the fabric away, the tickle of his fingertips on your bare flesh making you quiver, “I wish I'd known sooner.”

Fuck, you wish you'd behaved badly sooner.

“I'm going to count out your punishment, darling. Ten strikes on each cheek with my palm. If you are uncomfortable, I need you only to say, 'stop'. Do you understand?”

Again, you bobbed your head in a nod.

“ _Words,_ sweet, stupid girl.” He pinched your backside, and you squeaked.

“Yes, Sir.” You managed, your toes curling in your boots.

“Better.” He said, before you felt the settling of one of his large hands on your left asscheek. And then, the impact of a swat; a slight sting, followed by warmth. “One.”

The second strike came to your other cheek, and you nibbled your sore lip, muffling a moan. “Two.” He whispered.

By the time he got to eight, you were arching the small of your back, desiring a harder hand. When he got to twelve, you were openly mewling. By the last strike, your bum was blushing red, and you were panting like an animal in heat.

“Twenty.” His voice was much darker, thick with lust, and you could feel the throb of his erection against your belly. “Good girl.” The words made you want to squirm as he soothed the rawness of your bottom with his palms, a sweetly sensitive touch. Mindlessly, you rutted against his thigh, desperate for friction. “What's this?” He wondered, and you felt the trace of his touch on your inner thigh. “Gods, but you've not been punished _at all_. In fact, my breeches are soaked in the wet of you.”

The noise you made was half-sob, half-gasp. “I'm sorry, Sir.” You begged.

“Tsk, _tsk._ ” He clicked his tongue. “Nothing to do with such a stupid girl but _drill_ a lesson into her.” With a slight lift of his hips, you felt the press of his cock, and the question.

“Yes!” You burst out; it was frantic, but you no longer cared, “Please, Sir.”

“Please _what_ , darling?” His fingers dipped between your thighs and ghosted across the lips of your pussy. You jerked bodily in his lap.

“P-please,” Gods, you'd never had to ask like this before. It was humiliating, and absolutely thrilling. “Please _fuck me,_ Sir. I-I'm just... a dumb girl wh-who will never learn, otherwise.”

He growled lowly at that, obviously pleased, and you felt his hands at your hips, encouraging you to stand. You were wobbly, but that didn't matter, because he bent you over the desk anyway. Arching your back concave, you gripped the sides of the wood, throwing him a glance over your shoulder.

Unlacing his breeches, bathed in the glow of the afternoon sun, he was an absolute God behind you, all dirty intention and hard-set jaw and _oh--_ when he freed his cock, your eyes widened. He was gifted in more ways than one. Catching your stare, he smirked, stroking the length of himself, and you spread your legs a little further unconsciously.

“Is this what you want, sweet girl?” He crooned.

You began to nod, before remembering. “Yes.” You hissed, “Please.”

The blunt head of his dick rocked against your slick, puffy lips, the ridge of him catching your clit, and you moaned whoreishly just at that. He chuckled darkly. “ _Beg,_ baby girl.”

“Please, Sir.” You obeyed, trying to shift backwards to catch more of him, denied every time, “ _Please_ fuck me. Please, _please_. I've been bad.”

“You have.” He agreed, “Which is why you're _not allowed_ to come until I say you are.”

“Wha— _unghh!_ ” Your confusion wove seamlessly into a shout of pleasure as he gripped your hips and thrust into your cunt with one sure, pointed movement. Your muscles squeezed in a slight ache at the invasion, but the slap of his balls against your clit as he bottomed out made the feeling pleasurable. Intensely so.

As he began to fuck you without mercy, you realised you were in trouble.

The curve of his cock was grazing the rough nerves within you with every smooth rut of his hips, and he was strong, a powerful piston into the clench of your eager walls. You almost immediately felt the impending flutter of orgasm low in your belly, and you had absolutely no idea what to do. As he fucked harder into you, the desk squeaked across the floor with the force, and he stuck two fingers in your mouth. You realised it was because you were beginning to shriek.

“Suck,” He panted, “Suck them, baby.”

It was something to keep you both quiet and distracted and you messily obeyed, drooling over his hand as your legs trembled and your belly tightened. He was powering through you with such delicious precision that you felt certain you'd go mad. Both the hard slap of his flesh and the edge of the desk were rubbing your clit. Your walls began to seize in velvety tremors.

“Don't,” He ordered, his voice tight, “Don't you fucking _dare._ ”

Every muscle in your body drew like a bow-string, the over-tightening of horse-hair that he twisted and twisted until you were sure you'd just come apart with a snap. Somehow you fought against the rising tide of sensation, pleasure beginning to twist into pain as your cunt fisted harder around his cock. His rhythm began to suffer; you were too tight, too wet. His harsh breathing and moaning above you was too much.

“Please!” You keened, desperate, “ _Please, Sir!_ ” Tears streaked your cheeks; your orgasm was sizzling at the synapses of your spine, tickling low in your body, and you knew you could not possibly withstand much longer. “Oh Gods, _please_ let me come, oh _fuck,_ please!”

“Do it, then,” He commanded from between clenched teeth, as he threaded fingers in your hair and jerked you into a sharper arch, the throb of his cock intense against your tortured walls, “Fuckin' _come for me,_ dumb little _bitch._ ”

And you did. Mindlessly bucking back against him, you gave yourself wholly over to the firestorm that consumed you in a blazing rush, your mouth slack and slick as you convulsed. He held you tight, pressing his head against your shoulder as he cursed, enjoying the milk of your pussy for as long as possible before he was forced to withdraw. The emptiness made you cry out, but you luxuriated in the feel of his scalding come striping across your backside and thighs, long messy lines that dripped down your sensitive skin. Your cunt quivered in the aftermath, glorious shocks that thrilled you, and he moaned lowly as he spent the last of his load on the small of your back, resting his twitching dick there.

Both of you gasped for breath, wordless in the sensations you'd experienced. You were so thankful for the support of the desk, and you imagined he was, too. After a long moment, he laughed softly, and you felt him begin to tenderly clean your backside with something cool and silky. His own handkerchief, you realised. You cooed, enjoying the attention.

“Those are some very, _very_ rude underthings, you know?” He purred, and you muffled a giggle into your forearm.

“I know.” You said, as he laced them back up.

“Did you learn your lesson, darling?” He pulled your dress into position again, and with care, you stood. Your thighs were still quivering.

“I'm not sure,” You mused, slowly, “I may need reminders, Sir.”

“I believe you need a personal tutor.” His eyes were softer, and he fondly stroked a few strands of sweaty hair from your features. “And considering your grade? Hmm. I'm afraid I have no choice but to oversee your progress _personally_.”

“Well,” You raised your shoulders in a shrug, “If you are sure you can spare the time, Sir.”

“Your education is my priority, darling.” He smiled, “My schedule is _extremely_ flexible.”

“Oh,” You blinked at him, all faux-naive, “Then may I request a refresher... tomorrow evening?”

His smile grew, all promise and purpose. “I like the enthusiasm, darling. Maybe you won't be the greatest lute player in the continent,” Fingers traced your cheek, “But oh, you'll _sing_ for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow my Tumblr @inber for general ramblings! Thanks for reading!


End file.
